


A Lesson to be Learned

by claudia603



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Crack, Interspecies, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-12
Updated: 2010-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claudia603/pseuds/claudia603
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo learns a valuable lesson from an unlikely source. NOT to be taken seriously, pleez.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lesson to be Learned

Frodo’s feet made only the slightest of padding sound as he ran down the sharply declining streets of Minas Tirith. The sun was just setting and a cold breeze broke through the thick linen of his shirt. He did not know where he was going, but he knew he had to go somewhere where he could not easily be found, somewhere where he could show all the misery that pressed down on his heart. He did not want Gandalf or Sam or certainly not Eowyn to fuss over him. He did not want to see anyone.

Oh, this scathing shame! He imagined pummeling Faramir’s face until it bled. How dare he! Frodo clenched his fists together. He tried not to think about their brief time in Henneth Annun, curled together in furs, drinking wine, their fingers intertwined. That night had seemingly lasted forever, and when the dawn broke and cold reality set in, Frodo’s heart had nearly been crushed with the weight of leaving him.

And now – Frodo tried to erase the image of Faramir standing in the courtyard, holding the Lady Eowyn’s hand, smiling, leaning toward her. It explained everything – how Faramir had not come to see him in the Houses of Healing, how he had barely acknowledged him except to murmur some stuffy phrase honoring him as Ringbearer. He was a coward and a cad! Frodo slowed down, catching his breath. He was still not fully recovered, and running for so long had definitely exhausted him already.

Frodo paused in front of a broken stoop. The cottage was abandoned, clearly mostly damaged during the battle. He sank down on the stoop, fanning himself. Nobody seemed to be around. Most folk of Minas Tirith seemed to be inside their homes, having an evening meal. Frodo sniffed in the aroma of stews and freshly baked bread. His stomach grumbled a little. He should head back, but he could not bear to be at a feast with the king, where he might have to watch Faramir sitting with his new love.

I love you, my Frodo, I always will. Faramir had said upon their parting. Return safely to me.

Frodo swallowed in disgust. The word of Men meant nothing. And Faramir had earlier vowed that he would not even ensnare an orc with falsehood.

He startled at what sounded like something scuffling inside the abandoned cottage.

“Hello?” he called, half rising. He did not wish to trespass on the stoop if in fact someone lived there.

The noise started up again and grew closer. Well, it could perhaps be a cat or, and Frodo shuddered, a rather large rat. “Hello?” he called. The creature sounded awfully large to be either cat or rat.

Frodo stood, trying to decide whether to just go back to the citadel or to peek inside the abandoned cottage. He was a curious hobbit by nature, but he was also very weary.

Curiosity won out, and he cracked open the door, just slightly. “Hello?” he called out again. “I mean no harm!”

Suddenly a strong hand grabbed his upper arm and flung him into the dark, damp cottage. His back hit the floor, knocking the breath from him. He struggled, but he was held down. A horrid stench filled his nostrils, and Frodo recognized the smell at once. An orc still in Minas Tirith!

He struggled with all the ferocity left in him, flinging his body from side to side. A heavy fist slammed into the side of his head, and he fell into darkness.

***

When Frodo woke, his head was throbbing and fierce morning sunlight had spilled over him. He was lying in a small bed against a cracked wall. At once he remembered what had happened, and he gasped, trying to pull himself up. His hands were tied in front of him.

He twisted around, looking inside the remnants of a cottage that must have belonged to a family long since perished or fled in the war.

His heart gave a nasty lurch when he saw the orc kneeling silently at the foot of his bed. The orc saw that he was awake, and scrambled towards him. Frodo pressed himself against the wall, breathing hard. All too clearly he could feel the whip welts on his back throb in memory of what other orcs had done to him.

This orc merely petted his arm. “Shhh, shhhh!” he said in a harsh, gravely voice. “I won’t hurt you. You have no weapons, little half man.”

Frodo was too shocked to respond. Orcs were bred to kill and harm. Or so Frodo had always been led to believe. This one had beady eyes, but they looked more curious than cruel. Frodo touched the side of his head, wincing at the pain.

“Bordag did not mean to hurt little half man. You yelled and I was afraid.”

“Have…have you been here since the battle?” Frodo asked. He could not explain it, but he felt very much at ease.

The orc looked distressed and patted Frodo’s arm again. Frodo tried not to cringe from revulsion, as the orc’s hands were filthy and left slime on Frodo’s clean shirt. “Please do not shake, little half man. No harm. No harm.”

“I am no Man,” Frodo broke in, trying to control his trembling. “And call me Frodo.”

“Yes, Frodo. I’ve been hiding in here since the battles ended. All my people have been slaughtered or fled deep. I am alone, little half – Frodo.”

Frodo pulled at his wrists. “Could you untie me, please?”

“Will you not stay awhile? I am lonely, and you have a non-killing heart. Like me.”

“I must return soon to my friends,” Frodo said. “They will worry about me.”

Frodo wondered if Faramir would even notice that he had been missing for a night. Perhaps Sam would notice and fret a bit, but he would assume that Frodo was spending his night elsewhere, perhaps with Faramir. At the thought that he would never be able to spend a night with Faramir, Frodo’s heart sank bitterly, and something of that must have shown in his face.

“Little Frodo,” the orc said as he untied Frodo’s wrists. “You have pain. Not here.” He touched Frodo’s head wound softly. “But here.” He tapped Frodo’s chest.

“Yes, perhaps I do.”

The orc was harmless, and Frodo suddenly found himself telling him the story of how he had met Faramir and what had ensued. His words slipped out easily, and he was aware of how much of his dark feelings he had held back from his friends, for fear of either overburdening them or for fear that they would perceive him as needing more healing.

“Oh,” the orc nodded, tapping Frodo’s chest again. “So it has crushed.”

Frodo nodded. “Yes. And there is naught to look forward to now. Just bleak dark and a long road home.” He had never even been so frank with Sam.

“Do you want this Man for yourself?”

“Very much.” Again, Frodo was shocked by how easy it was to talk to this orc. He shuddered, remembering similar voices in Mordor as they taunted and beat him.

“A thing of non-filth such as you should not have misfortune in this.”

Frodo laughed slightly. “But the lady he has chosen is also a thing of…non-filth.”

“How does she kiss?” the orc asked.

“Pardon me?” Frodo was sure he must have misheard the orc. To have such a vile creature who knew about kissing – it seemed inconceivable.

“How does she kiss?” The orc puckered his lips.

Frodo flushed. “I do not know, I’m afraid.”

“You can win back this Man, my little Frodo. Let me tell you a secret of orcs. We may be many things unworthy of men but we do know this. Come closer.”

Frodo shrank back instead. He certainly hoped the orc did not expect him to kiss him. The idea, as nice as this orc seemed to be, was vile.

“No harm, Frodo. No harm. Close your eyes.”

Reluctantly Frodo obeyed the orc. Before he could react, warm lips covered his. They did not emit a stench at all – rather they were warm and moist. He opened and closed his mouth in an oddly arousing cadence. If he kept his eyes closed, he could pretend it was Faramir.

“Move your lips,” the orc managed. Frodo began to imitate the rhythmic kiss. His heart thudded, shivers ran up and down his back, and his groin stirred with surprising arousal. The orc thrust his tongue in and out of the moistness of Frodo’s mouth. Frodo followed suit, allowing their tongues to tangle. His breath came out in sharp, aroused gasps, and his hardness pressed uncomfortably against his breeches. At last everything inside Frodo exploded, and he clutched the orc close to him, not minding the stench that he suddenly could all too clearly smell. The orc rubbed against Frodo’s clothing in a frantic urge to finish himself off.

When they both caught their breaths, the orc spoke. “That, my Frodo, is how you will win your Man.”

Frodo pulled himself to shaky feet. He was a mess – torn and filthy shirt, bruised face, tousled curls. “I have no doubt that if this does not work, I am not sure what will.” He straightened out his clothing. Perhaps Faramir was not worth the gold of th

“You must go now?” the orc asked.

“Yes.”

The orc sighed plaintively. “Will you return?”

“I do not know. But I will keep your place a secret. I do not wish you killed by one of the guards.”

“Farewell, my Frodo of non-filth.”

Frodo bowed slightly. “Farewell, Bordag of uncruel heart.”

  
END

  


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